Jealousy of an Englishman
by Luciole-leSolange
Summary: Another roleplay written by Twilightrose2 and myself. Based on the Hundred Year's war and Jeanne d'arc, tried to keep it historical but- you know Hetalia!
1. Chapter 1

Arthur breathed heavily, his back still pressed against the large stone wall that surrounded the city. He could hear the approaching cavalry and gripped his sword tighter. He knew she was coming and this was, perhaps, the only chance he was going to get capture her. Above him, a guard manning the gate waved a small blue flag. Three horsemen. One Jeanne, two unknown. The Englishman grinned.

Francis was to Jeanne's right side, ever unwilling to leave her side he had disgusted himself crudely but well. His long hair was tied up and hidden under his helmet and he kept a constant watch over her. She was currently talking to the other officer, discussing plans to stop the English Siege of Compiegne.

Trying to calm his breathing down, Arthur peaked around the gate, watching the three white horses and their riders trundle closer and closer. It was a daring move, hiding his troops, planning a trap, but if it worked, Jeanne would be his.

"Mon commandant-" Francis attempted to speak in a deeper note than usual, though he was sure Jeanne knew it was him, "I am getting an uneasy feeling about zis- Per'aps we should turn back..." Jeanne looked back at him and smiled and gently shook her head. He sighed, something just didn't feel quite- right- His gut was in terrible knots.

The horses thundered by, through the gate and Arthur raised his hand, shouting loudly. Above, the guard nodded, pulling a lever. The gears began to whirl and the gate slammed shut. Arthur stepped out of the shadows.

"Mon Dieu! Jeanne! Run!" Francis sneered at the offending soldier and looked back at Jeanne, who refused to retreat. She motioned for Francis to leave, quickly announcing that she would follow. But he stood his ground, next to Jeanne where he belonged. "Very well- Angleterre! You will pay for zis trap!" He unsheathed his sword and glared at the soldier again.

Arthur merely raised his hand again. From behind building and shadows, his hidden soldiers appeared, training bows on them. "Think carefully about your next move France," he said, slowly striding towards him, green eyes never leaving the deep blue ones, "I only want her. Hand her over without a fight and I'll spare you."

"I cannot die as long as there is a man on zis earth willing to call himself a Frenchman! I will not leave Jeanne's side you English bastard!" Francis removed his helmet and let his hair fall, he commanded his horse to trot in front of Jeanne but she would have none of it. Smiling at him again Jeanne took her place next to him and shouted as well, "We will not surrender to you, English scum!"

Frowning, Arthur looked up at the two defiant figures. "Well, I'll be interested to know if nations bleed." He jerked his head slightly. A soldier let lose an arrow, striking the third member of the French party in the space where the armor met his helmet. He fell from his steed and did not rise. "One more chance before I make you practice for my archer." His men laughed and he smiled with them.

Francis looked at Jeanne nervously, he was not to eager to find this out either but he couldn't leave her. They were heavily outnumbered and it was impossible to win against them. "Mon commandant, let us retreat to fight another day, oui?" She looked over to him and nodded, both of them turning quickly and begging their horses to run faster than the English soldiers arrows.

Arthur was not surprised by the retreat. He held a hand, indicating his soldiers shouldn't fire. For a few moments, he watched the white horses disappear into the heart of the city. "The city's completely locked off. No one is getting in or out." He retrieved his own horse, mounting it. "Weed the French rats out. We will find them." It was a game now, and Arthur didn't plan on losing. He nudged his steed into a slow trot.

"They didn't fire..." Francis looked back quickly as his horse reached a full gallop. "They are planning something-" He glanced at Jeanne and spoke quietly, "I fear for you mon amour." She smiled slightly and increased their pace.

Taking his time to wander through the city, Arthur wanted to enjoy the time leading up to the moment when he slide his sword into the witch's armor. He imagined she wouldn't scream, no, she had too much pride, but hopefully Francis would shriek instead. He drew his horse to a stop, quirking his head, trying to keep alert for the subtlest of sounds.

Their horses tired after a while, unable to keep up the hurried pace and the couple slowed to a them to a walk. Francis kept a constant look around them but was rather confused when it didn't seem that anyone had followed them. What was that damned Englishman up to?

And then he heard it, the quietest set of horses hoofs on the cobblestone - not galloping anymore, clearly falling into the false pretense of safety. Carefully, Arthur slide off his horse, double checking his sword was still at his hip and grabbed his bow and quiver from the horse's back. He began to stalk towards the delicate sounds, slowly notching an arrow.

Francis lead his horse closer to Jeanne's side and looked at her. His gut was starting to knot again and he took her armored hand lightly in his own and placed a gentle kiss on the cold metal. He kept the close proximity to her and they continued to walk, looking for someplace to hide.

Arthur darted from house to house, the sound growing ever closer. His heart was pumping furiously and his breathing was shallow. How long had he waited for this moment? He glanced around a corner and caught sight of a white tail flicking out of sight.

They did not keep a straight path, they knew better than that. Turning down small alleys and roads the pair made sure that if anyone was tailing them they would have to work for it. Francis pointed at small dirt covered road and quickly trotted over to it, motioning for Jeanne to follow.

Arthur watched them turn down the dirt path. He carefully drew the string of his bow back, aiming directly for the unarmored side. Letting out a slow breath, his fingers let loose the arrow.

The rush of air blew past them, missing by mere inches, and they immediately turned to face the threat. Francis managed to shove his way in front of Jeanne, between her and the offending archer. Drawing his sword he challenged, "Show yourself lâche!"

Muttering a slew of curses, Arthur kept low and in the shadows, pulling another arrow from his quiver and fitting it. This time he aimed directly for France, figuring that even if he hit the right spot, Francis would remain alive long enough to see his precious Jeanne fall. The arrow flew from his bow.

"Merde!" France cursed as an arrow sunk itself in his left arm, he winced as he ripped it from his arm and dismounted, charging toward the hidden enemy. "You will pay for zat! I assure you!"

sliding his bow over his shoulder, Arthur pulled his blade out of his sheath, but remained crouched, watching Francis storm towards him.

Jeanne called out to Francis to keep his head and the raging Frenchman halted in the middle of the road. Charging after an enemy that you cannot see was incredibly foolish, raising his sword he repeated himself, "Show yourself!"

Marveling at how much power the woman held over the nation, Arthur decided that now was his only chance. He knew he couldn't best Francis in a duel - the Frenchman's blade skills were much better than his. not making a sound, he placed his sword on the ground, just within arm's reach in case France decided to charge again, and slipped his bow off his shoulder, notching another arrow and aiming for Jeanne of Arc. This time, he wouldn't miss.

Francis could see the glint of another arrow hidden in the shadows and saw it wasn't aimed for him. Cursing again loudly he charged again, toward the archer, readying his sword and putting his own body in the path of the arrow. "Jeanne! Run!" His voice had a hint of fear in it.

It took Arthur only a moment to readjust his position in relation to Francis moving in front of him. He let the arrow fly and without even checking to see if it hit his target (It had to, he couldn't miss the one opportunity) dropped his bow and picked up his sword.

"Arthur!" Francis froze as the arrow whizzed past him, his gaze following it as it sunk deep into Jeanne's shoulder. He blood boiled and he face his rival again, anger and rage burning in his eyes, "You will die for that Angleterre! I will see to it myself!"

Feeling like a caged animal, Arthur cackled maniacally. "You can kill me." He breathed, the knuckles of his sword hand turning white, "But then she'll die." stepping out of the shadows, he raised his blade, while mentally preparing to flee should Francis attack him. "It's your choice."

Francis' heart burned and he glared at Arthur speaking quietly before he turned to help Jeanne, "My heart harbors nothing but hate for you, Arthur-" He broke into a run back to Jeanne and helped her off her horse, tending to her worriedly. How could they get out of here?

Letting the breath he had been holding hiss out between his teeth, Arthur glanced between the couple and the path behind him. He could run and let his men finish them off, but that would bring him no satisfaction...He began to stride towards Jeanne and Francis, his hand trembling as he clutched his sword.

"Jeanne... Jeanne... Are you alright?" Francis laid her on the ground, careful not to touch the arrow suck in her. She closed her eyes tightly to hide the pain in them and whispered a quiet yes to him. He placed a kiss on her forehead and glanced up at Arthur. "Leave or my sword will find itself buried in your chest!"

"There's nowhere you can go." Arthur said quietly, not watching Francis, but rather the color slowly draining from Jeanne's cheeks. "The entire city is closed off...My men are everywhere." He swallowed, a lump growing in his throat.

Francis looked back down at Jeanne and his breath caught, she was losing blood to fast. This wasn't happening- Francis was suppose to protect her- she was everything to him, Jeanne was smiling up at him but he could tell she didn't have long in this state. "Merde! Arthur you scum!" His eyes betrayed him as tears started to fall onto Jeanne's cheek.

"Y-you really love her." Arthur said, green eyes widening. "You actually love her. I can't believe it..." He chuckled nervously, "A human... fuck... 500 years we've known each other and you still surprise me." He lowered his blade and took a step towards the couple.

"A-amour knows not race, gender, or mortality Angleterre," The Frenchman's voice unwillingly giving out as he started to shake. He held Jeanne gently, attempting to put some pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding, what he would give for a medic.

Figuring that if Francis was going to attack him, he would have enough time to jump back and flee, Arthur came with arm's length of the Frenchman and Jeanne. He tilted his head, watching the blood slip over Francis' fingers. "She's not going to make it unless she gets to a doctor." He whispered, "You're going to have to let her die or... hand her over to me."

"I'm suppose to trust scum like you with mon Jeanne? You truly are insane Arthur," Francis ignored Arthur's approach, his attention occupied with trying to stop Jeanne's bleeding. He didn't want to admit it, but handing over Jeanne was his only option, he just couldn't let her die. "Y-you will kill her..."

Arthur made to touch Francis' shoulder, but stopped. "She may die if you give her to me." He said, trying to keep his voice even, "But she will die if she stays were with you."

Jeanne looked at Francis through half-lidded eyes and spoke quietly to him, telling him that he should give her to Arthur, she would be alright. More tear's spilt from his eyes and he whispered to her quietly to her, "Je t'aime Jeanne..." He looked up at Arthur with hate in his eyes, "If she dies- I shall never forgive you Angleterre..."

Arthur nodded, a pit of guilt already forming in his stomach. He placed a hand to his mouth, calling for him men. They arrived within minutes, and only paused for a moment when Arthur told them they were taking Jeanne to a medic. The soldiers gently picked her up and carried her to the small home they were using as hospital. Arthur hung back, making sure that Francis didn't try to follow them.

Francis sat in the spot where he had held Jeanne and stared at his blood covered hands, he knew Arthur was never giving her back. He knew it from the start- his gut was always right. Stuck in a state of shock he closed his eyes, and whispered quietly again, "Je t'aime Jeanne..."

"I..." Arthur tried to say, but the lump in his throat was preventing him from talking. He could hear his men cheering triumphantly, the witch in their grasp. He could hear Francis whispering. He could hear the distant rumble of thunder. "F-Francis...I-I... I am sorry."

"Merde à la hausse-" Francis stood up and continued to stare at the ground where his Jeanne's blood was spilt, his eyes hidden by his loose hair, "You are sorry for nothing." He gathered his horse and Jeanne's and turned away from the Englishman.

Arthur grabbed Francis shoulder. "Say what you want." He said to the armored back. "But I am sorry. I know what it's like to love someone and have them taken away." He released the shoulder and stalked away, grabbing his fallen bow and starting towards the makeshift hospital.

"Arthur," Francis turned and faced the retreating man, "Do you really know? Do you know how it is to have everything ripped from you by someone you once held dear? Can you fathom the pain- not only from losing Jeanne- But the fact that it was -you- zat took her from me?" Tears were streaming down his face as he spoke, but he kept his voice steady and determined.

"Once upon a time," Arthur began, to looking at Francis. "When I was a young boy, I lived with a spirit. She was kind and beautiful and promised to protect me from anything. But then one day, strange men came to my shores. I was scared, no, terrified at first but the spirit told me that I would be safe. I trusted her and met the men, one in particular standing out, taking a great liking to me. As he became my closet friend, I forgot about the spirit, too engrossed with the foreign and unknown tongue to even care." He drew a deep, stuttering breath, rubbing his eyes on the back of his hand. "And then, just like that, she was gone. The forests she had held so dear were cut down by the strange men. The rivers she had protected drew murky and dark with blood spilled by my people at the hand of the strange men. And me, the one thing she had held closest to her heart, was left alone amid the broken earth as the man I can come to trust, to like, to love left."

"A sweet bedtime story mon Angleterre, but inaccurate," Francis walked over to the Englishman and stopped within inches of him, staring deeply into the green eyes, "You expected me to bow to you-" He poked Arthur's chest once to make a point and continued, "-to take you're king as mine. You expected me to stay with you when you wanted to rule over me?"

"I just wanted you to stay Francis." He said, shaking his head, staring back into his blue eyes. "Do you realize how young I was? How confused? Can you really blame me for wanting to keep the one person whom I've trusted besides Elizabeth at my side?" He laughed quietly, taking a step away from him. "It doesn't matter. Pretend that I don't understand. Feel sorry for yourself, I don't care."

Francis narrowed his eyes and spoke bitterly, "You never did mon -cher-." He quickly turned on his heel and mounted his horse, grabbing the other's reins. Jabbing his heel in his steed's side he took off, going anywhere away from that stupid, insufferable Englishman that had caused him so much pain.

Arthur watched him ride off, and only once he was out of sight, did he let out a small, chocked sob. "I care." He breathed, "I do." He took a moment to recover himself before turning his head upward, staring at the darkening sky. Tomorrow he would end this, Jeanne would fall and he would emerge victorious.

This would not go unpunished, even with Jeanne's death France would not lose this war- He had to go back and rally his soldiers, take Jeanne's place and remind them of her sacrifice for her people, for his people. No, Jeanne's death would not be a loss- It would be the cry of his people as they fought the English scum. Vive Jeanne d'Arc!


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn rose and Arthur sat up from his bedroll, feeling thoroughly unrested. He got to his feet, rubbing his eyes and yawning widely. After exchanging news with his soldiers, he was informed that Jeanne had survived the night and that a messenger pigeon had arrived from London. They were to move the prisoner to Rounen, where she would be tried for heresy. Arthur gave the order and rounded his troops up. Jeanne was still weak and could not ride. They borrowed a wagon, placed her on it and began the journey. Arthur rode behind Jeanne, watching the wagon bump up and down. His guess that in one week, she would be tied to the stake.

Francis had not slept that night, he was too busy negotiating with the Burgundians to help him overtake the English. France's army was steadily rallying each other, taking Jeanne's capture and letting it fuel their rage toward their enemy. At dawn France ignored the tiredness and sadness that bogged him down and mounted his horse, this time by the side of Du Guesclin, ready to finish this damned war.

The trail passed quickly, Arthur wasn't able to attend most of the sessions, as the French seemed to be rallying even while Jeanne was trapped. He had spent most of his time organizing his troops, making sure that no one would interrupt the execution. No large forces would be getting in, only small team would be able to sneak by his forces and that was his main concern

His country was stabilizing, being stronger and much more serious about this war. Francis was seeing more and more of his towns return under his control- He could not get Jeanne out of his mind and that just seem to add to the fight. So many rumors about her sent him into a rage, and taking a few of his most trusted men, charged toward the prison she was being kept in.

Arthur arrived at her prison, nodding the soldier guarding her door, who let him inside. He snapped manacles around her wrists and beginning to lead her down the stairs. Right outside, in the square, Arthur saw the stake and the people gathering around it.

Francis saw the hill, the group of people, and the stake they were gathered around. He paused only for a minute as his blood froze in his veins, putting his hand up to signal he was going alone, Francis charged toward the building, drawing his sword to fight.

Arthur led Jeanne to the wood podium, letting her use his hand, as if she was climbing the stairs to a palace. Soldier secured ropes around her and Arthur stepped down from the stake. A monk approached him, holding a torch. As England clasped it, he heard a small scuffle behind him, and turned to see Francis standing there.

He couldn't find the words for the emotions blazing inside of him, once he reach the front of the crowd Francis just froze there. Everything he wanted to shout, all of the strength left him as he saw Jeanne, his little darling Jeanne of Arc tied to the stake. Little above a whisper he pleaded, "Arthur... please..."

Arthur took a deep breath, glancing up at Jeanne. She was staring out at Francis, her lips mouthing words. "Francis..." He breathed, gripping the torch. He could feel the eyes of the gathered people -his people- all scrutinizing him, waiting for him to drop the fire. "...Help..." his fingers relaxed and the flames wavered dangerously.

Francis charged forward, always at the beck and call of Jeanne. He pushed aside Arthur and ran up to her, eyes wide with fear and heartbreak. "Jeanne- Je t'aime..." He turned around to look at Arthur, "I will not have this! Jeanne has done nothing! She does not deserve this!"

The crowd started to yell and Arthur could see his soldiers advancing on the stake. "Wait! Hold back!" He shouted above the crowd, staring at Francis. "She had done everything! Murdered my people, spread lies and poisoned your people with a false hope! She says she can see God, that he talks to her. Do you even believe in God anymore Francis? After what we've seen, after we've seen?" He waved the torch. "Get down from there Francis. Or you will burn with her."

"Murder? False hope? Mon Dieu Arthur! Look at yourself! Still trying to rule me and listening to your corrupt kings and officials! Sickening! You shall not win this war!" Francis held his ground and turned back to Jeanne, ignoring the cries and protests from the crowd. "J-Jeanne... Je-je suis désole... Pl-please forgive me..." He pressed his lips against hers as the yelling grew louder.

Arthur blinked as Francis kissed Jeanne. Rage suddenly boiled in his veins and he grits his teeth. "I will win." He said and threw the torch into the stake, stepped away as the flames roared into life.

Startled, Francis fell back away from Jeanne landing hard on his back. He looked up at her as the flames quickly over took her, but she refused to cry out. The tears he had been so carefully holding back suddenly broke free as he cried out, "Jeanne! No!" A sob hitched in his throat as he scrambled to his feet, "No!"

Arthur strode over to where Francis was standing, grabbing his arm. "She's gone." He said harshly, digging his fingernails in to soft flesh, "I'll see you on the battlefield." Releasing the Frenchman's arm, Arthur raised a hand, his soldiers filing out of the square while the crowd continued to cheer. He kept a hand on his sword, watching the flames lick up Jeanne's body, feeling a vindictive pleasure.

Francis found he could not look away from Jeanne's burning figure, he barely heard Arthur's words or the crowds roaring cheers. The world around him seem to stop and he could watch the flames move slowly, devouring more and more of his Jeanne of Arc. The tears continued to roll down his face, but the sobbing stopped, the Frenchman to shocked to remember to breathe.

Arthur watched the flames consume her completely. They slowly died down as the crowd dissipated, taking their rather joyous mood with them, leaving the feeling of death heavy in the air. He shivered slightly, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

"Jeanne..." Her name passed quietly from Francis lips. He was still frozen there, his heart felt like it had literally shattered in his chest and he was afraid that if he moved the rest of him would follow. Jeanne's burnt corpse hung there, unrecognizable now, and it seemed to ask him 'Why didn't you save me?'. A sob finally hitched in his throat as he closed his eyes tightly.

Scoffing as the Frenchman whispered the name, Arthur turned his back on the smoldering pile. "You should leave." He advice quietly, "Or my men will kill you when they return."

Francis hit his knees hard as his sobs increased. He fell forward, catching himself on his hands as the tears streamed from his eyes. Whispering her name between sobs, Francis felt an overwhelming sense of guilt pour over him. "S-she n-never- She never forgave m-me..." The guilt that was rushing over him was almost unbearable- He had caused her death.

Arthur wheeled around. Seeing Francis so upset over something he wasn't the focus of make his temper stretch. "Forgive you for what?" He spat, stalking back over to France, seizing his shoulders. "She's fucking dead Francis, get that into your thick skull." He wanted the Frenchman to stop mourning her, to fight him, to pay attention to him again.

"J-just leave Ar-arthur-" Francis' voice was broken and worn, "-haven't y-you done en-enough?" He kept his head hung in mourning and he could feel his shoulders almost burn where Arthur held them.

Growling in frustration, Arthur tried not to shake the Frenchman. "I have done nothing." He sighed, letting his breath hiss out from between his clenched teeth. "Do you really want me to leave Francis?" He asked softly.

Arthur's now gentle voice sickened him, had he not just condemned Jeanne to death? Accused her of murder? Of false hope? The rage in his heart started to bubble through his veins and he balled his fists tightly. "I'll never forgive you for this Angleterre- You will pay," his words full of hate he pulled himself from Arthur's hold and retreated, back to where his men were waiting.

Arthur didn't move from his spot on the ground. He just stared after Francis, his head a muddled mess of rage, guilt and gratification. Slowly he got to his feet and glanced down at the burnt pile of wood. His eyes travelled over the corpse and something glinted at him. Picking his way through the wood, he reached down, feeling the charred flesh give way under his fingers. Retching slightly, he quickly grabbed the shining object and stumbled away. He leaned against the hall, hacking slightly before looking down into his hand. A half-melted cross sat there, glint up at him.

Wasting no time Francis didn't speak to his men when he returned, he mounted his horse and raced back to his base camp. His generals had already had plans to take over the very city Jeanne was burnt in and many others. He knew it would be a long time before he avenged her death but the day would come, and Arthur would be begging at his feet.

After the burning of Jeanne of Arc, Arthur was in a constant state of conflict. The French victories never stop and when he wasn't on the front lines, trying to hold some French village, he was ordering his soldiers around, trying to find supplies and sending reports back to his capital, trying to explain the constant losses. He was worn very thin as the April dawned, and when Kyriell told him that the French were coming from the South, it took him a moment to process the fact that someone was talking to him

Francis had allies now, and not only did he have allies; but cannons as well. His armies were advancing, with him at the head where his Jeanne would have been. Clermont lead the french forces toward the rival army, cannons following soon behind.

"We're backed against the stream." Kyriell explained. "Our archers are setting up but we've heard the French are bringing canons." Arthur nodded tiredly, rubbing his eyes, wanted nothing more than to have a long sleep and wake up to the battle being long done with, victory or not. The commander strode away, patting Arthur on the back. The nation stood at the head of the stakes that protected his archers, raising a hand and watching the spot on the horizon grow larger with every moment.

Clermont smirked at Francis, "We've got cannons, and we have zat De Richemont fellow on zeir other side, we will win zis one Francis, don't fret!" Francis just smiled tiredly at the larger man and looked to where he was sure Arthur was. Sure he cared if he won the war, but his mind was more engaged deciding how he would exact his revenge on Arthur. They started forward, this would end today.

The battle didn't start out thrilling, the French troops easily pushed back. Arthur was feeling very confident that this would finally be the end to his losing streak, however then he heard an explosion. The ball rocketed through the air and he swore loudly, two of his soldiers falling victim. Another explosion soon followed and his troops began to fret and Arthur looked everywhere for Kyriell. "We've got to get those cannons down!" He shouted when he spotted the commander, hurrying over to him, "Now, before they rip our soldiers to shreds!"

Francis was in the thick of the skirmish, his sword already covered in blood from Englishmen stupid enough to get in his way. He heard his commandant yell that their cannons were being seized by the English, but he wasn't very worried. Charging and plunging his sword into another unfortunate, he looked around the battlefield, he only truly cared about drawing the blood of one Englishman- Arthur.

Arthur grinned at his small group of soldiers as they cut down the last of the Frenchmen protecting the cannon. But before he could truly enjoy the victory, he felt his blood run cold. Another army was approaching, mounted on noble horses, charging towards the English stationed back at the stream. He froze, realizing that defeat was at hand. Kyriell was not going to be able to maneuver out of this one. Quickly tell him few soldiers to retreat; he glanced down his bloodied blade, then at the approaching army. With a wicked grin, he started running towards the fray, if they were going to lose; they were going to lose fighting.

After dispatching a few more pathetic English soldiers Francis wiped his blade on his once white handkerchief. He took a moment to catch his breath and look around, smirking at the reinforcements that were charging in. A running Englishman caught his attention quickly and he instantly recognized him as the object of his hatred. "Arthur!" Francis declared his target, and ran to meet him, sword ready.

At the sound of his name, Arthur looked around and felt his heart jump into his throat. Francis was running towards him, his uniformed soaked in blood and sword glinting evilly. He stopped dead, knowing that the surge of French troops would not work to his advantage. If he was even going to have a chance in hell of taking Francis on, it would be man to man.

Francis pushed anyone in his way to the side, be it Englishman or Frenchman. His blue eyes locked onto the now frozen form and the hatred that he had been harboring since that fateful day forced its way out in a cruel, somewhat -wrong- smile. His men knew that Angleterre was his, he had threatened them that if anyone touched him- they would hang from the gallows. Francis wanted Arthur to himself.

Arthur saw Francis smile and a bolt of fear shot down his spine, making his grip on the sword shake violently. Somehow he knew this had been coming, but the foresight did not comfort him in the slightest as Francis emerged from the battle, grinning at him.

Not hesitating, Francis finally reached Arthur and immediately brought his sword up, and swung down with all of his strength.

Arthur brought his sword up just in time, but the force of the blow knocked him back and he found himself losing his footing.

"You damn Englishman!" Francis roared at him as he brought his sword back and swung again, giving Arthur no time to recover.

His feet slipped out under him and Francis' sword knocked Arthur's blade from his hand. Knowing his was completely defenseless, England tried to scramble away, making sure to never turn his back on the Frenchman.

Francis kicked away Arthurs sword and approached him, sword pointing directly at the Englishman's throat. His eyes burned with hate and his grin was still plastered on his face, he was sure he must have looked insane- But for once he didn't care.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur's chest rose and fell quickly as he gasped for breath. He was scared of the man Francis had become. He looked up the length of the blade, trying to see the blue eyes between the long tangled hair.

He finally had him- Francis finally had Arthur at the end of his sword. The man that had shattered his heart twenty two years ago was at his mercy. Before he realized it he was laughing, he hung his head slightly and let his eyes fall closed as he quietly chuckled to himself, "I told you that you would regret that day -mon cher-" He spoke the once term of endearment bitterly as he opened his eyes.

"I don't regret that day." Arthur said, trying to keep his voice even. "At all. But I do regret how I treated you and I know it might not mean much..." Keeping his eyes trained on Francis' face, he reached into the collar of his shirt and tugged on the small chain, pulling out the small cross.

Francis face instantly fell and he hurriedly snatched it from Arthur's neck, breaking the chain. He staggered back a few steps and the grip on his sword loosened. "How," his eyes where hidden behind his hair again and he was staring at the cross in his palm.

"I-It was with her remains." He said, Francis' suddenly action making him jump horribly. "I... I kept it. In case..." He trailed off, wondering if Francis was even listening to him.

The emotions inside of the already broken Frenchman rekindled with this small memory. He could picture her face again, smiling and laughing, not in the time of war, but in peace. Gently closing his hand around the object, tears started to run down his blood spattered cheeks. Barely louder than a whisper he spoke again, "M-merci. Arthur."

Arthur just nodded, turning his head, glancing around for his sword, but it was far. Glancing at Francis, he slowly began to edge towards the blade. "I'm sorry Francis." He said, trying to keep France talking and not focusing on his slow movements.

Scoffing slightly, Francis stuffed the small cross in his pocket and tightened his grip on the blade. "Do not think I am a fool Angleterre. I still have a score to settle with you." He looked up, tears still streaming down his cheeks, but the hatred was still clear in his eyes.

Arthur looked between Francis and his sword. "Will you really not forgive me?" He asked before making a lunge for the blade.

Francis countered the lunge with one of his own, losing his blade in the process and knocking both of them off their feet. "I warned you what would happen Arthur."

"I don't care." He said, panting heavily, the blade just out of reach, "I'm not dying just because you want to avenge some mortal."

Pinning Arthur by his shoulders, Francis glared at him, "You seem to be doing a lot of 'not caring' these days Angleterre- and that Mortal, as you so eloquently put it, was mon amour. How could you expect different?"

Arthur struggled against the Frenchman but found he couldn't sit up. "You didn't love her," he spat, "You loved what she was doing for you. Nothing more."

Francis hissed at the man below him, "Of course I loved her! I still do!" His grip on Arthur's shoulders tightened with his re-growing anger. "You 'ave no right to tell me who I love!"

"I have every right to tell you when you are being an idiot!" Arthur bit back, wincing as Francis' grip tightened painfully, "You knew it wasn't going to work and you still went after her. Could you be anymore selfish? What were going to do? Stay by her side as she grew old while he stayed young? I know you Francis and the minute she stopped putting out you would've dropped her." Arthur wasn't paying attention to what he was saying, the words he had been holding back just spilling out of him.

The Frenchman's eyes burned with the insult and his voice took on an even more hateful tone, "I never even touched her you insufferable fool. On ze stake- was the first time I even kissed her!" He started to shake again as the memories flashed in his mind. A sob unwillingly forced itself from his throat.

Arthur stared at him. "Y-You never even kissed her?" He shook his head, from side-to-side "No! That's a lie, you liar! You kissed her all the time! And took her to bed a-and..." His words died away and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Keep telling yourself that Arthur. Pretty little lies that keep you sane," Francis rolled off of Arthur and laid on his back. He could hear his men shout victoriously all around him, speaking of the capture of Arthur's general. He didn't care what that stupid Englishman did now, all he wanted was to forget this pain.

Arthur sat up and reached down into his boot, pulling out a hidden dagger. He lurched over, so that he was above Francis, pressing the blade against his throat. "Sane?" He asked, shaking his head and laughing sadly, "Were we ever sane?"

"Oui Angleterre, before world conquest, before 'umans became greedy and selfish. We were." The Frenchman looked up at the green eyes sadly. France knew Arthur wouldn't kill him, just as Arthur knew that Francis could never kill him. So he laid there, waiting for the Englishman to make the next move.

Dropping the blade, Arthur's arms gave out and he placed his head on Francis chest. "I'm s-so sorry." He said, tears sliding down his cheeks, "I'm sorry..."

Francis wrapped his arms around his rivals back and rubbed his back soothingly. His words were quiet but pain-filled, "It is our curse, non? To forever fight each other even if we wish it were different..." The Frenchman stared up at the sky, dark clouds were gathering, fitting he thought, and it just slightly started to drizzle.

"I wish we were different." Arthur mumbled into Francis' coat, shivering as the rain fell against his neck, "That we weren't nations..." He started sobbing quietly, feeling a large cut slowly trace along his back as the land he had claimed was taken.

"Shhh, mon cher-" Francis gently tried to console Arthur, running his fingers through his hair lightly, "-It is both our blessing and curse, and be as it may, we cannot rid ourselves from it."

Arthur felt like a child again and he didn't want to deal with anything else at the moment. The rain thundered down harder and he reached into Francis' coat pocket, trying to find the cross. His trembling fingers closed around the silver and he pulled it out.

Francis panicked slightly, the cross still very important to him. "Wh-what are you doing Angleterre! Give zat back! S'il vous plait!"

Arthur brought the cross to his chest, cradling it carefully. "It was warm no matter where I put it," He said, rolling off France, but still staying tucked against the Frenchman's side. "Like someone was holding all the time."

Looking over at the Englishman blankly, Francis smiled sadly and sighed, "Mon Jeanne was truly a saint." He kept his voice quiet so it wouldn't betray him with the fresh tears falling from his eyes. The feelings toward the Englishman at his side starting to revert back to more loving and less spiteful, though he was sure that he would always harbor a little bitterness toward him now.

Grabbing Francis' hand, he uncurled the fingers, and pressed the cross in the calloused palm. He covered it with his own hands, kissing the fingers. "I know what I did was unforgivable." He whispered, the storm freezing his very bones.

The Frenchman gripped the cross tightly and rolled over to his side, wrapping his arm around Arthur. Nuzzling his scruffy chin on the Englishman's shoulder, he whispered gently, "Per'aps, one day Angleterre. Shall we get out of this storm? You are shaking."

Arthur shook his head, gripping Francis' shirt. "I don't want to face my men." He said, "I don't want to go back to London."

"I never said you could go back mon cher~ You are still my prisoner, oui?" Francis wasn't sure himself if he had meant that in his normal, perverse way, or if he was actually being serious.

Lips twitching in a smile, Arthur looked up at Francis. "Would you hide me Francis? Keep me safe?" He asked, wondering if France actually meant prisoner of war and not something else.

Francis grunted as he sat up and reached over for his sword, sheathing it after wiping it with his handkerchief. "We shall see Angleterre~" He stood and offered a hand to his rival, giving a hint of a smile in return.

Arthur sat up, taking the hand and as Francis pulled him to his feet, he didn't let go of Francis' hand, clinging to him.

"You seem to be stuck hmm?" Francis allowed his smile to grow on his face before pulling Arthur into a tight embrace. "No matter how childish you are Angleterre- No matter how much we fight- Je t'aime," the Frenchman whispered. He could forgive Arthur, he was pretty sure he already had.

Sighing happily, Arthur buried his face into Francis chest, the wet fabric chafing against his skin. "I like you too." He said.

Francis chuckled and pulled back from Arthur, keeping an arm slung around the Englishman's shoulders. "Let us just depart, oui? Before we freeze to death?"

"Yes, let's go." Arthur said, leaning on the Frenchman, watching the troops loom larger. He wondered how this must look, the two nations being so friendly after the deciding battle of one hundred years. He hoped Kyreill wasn't watching.

Francis lead Arthur back to his base camp, explaining in quick french that he would take care of the man himself. They got a couple of weird looks from his soldiers but quickly dismissed them, reminding them who they served. He gathered his horse and mounted it quickly, offering another hand to the Englishman.

"Where are we going?" Arthur said, taking Francis' hand anyway. He saw some of his soldiers being held captive, but quickly turned his head away.

"Somewhere less death filled," Francis replied simply as he pulled Arthur up to sit behind him. He had heard his soldiers talking about an unnamed city nearby that had somehow escaped this hundred year war with little hardships. Clicking softly, he spurred his horse forward, hoping to at least for a while, escape the duties of being a nation.

Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis' waist, staring around the dark countryside while thunder rumbled above them, and lightning illuminating the earth in blinding flashes. The bumping ride and the storm were making him incredibly drowsy and he leaned against Francis, his eyes closing, falling asleep.

Francis spurred his horse to go faster, to get them out of the rain. He had never been a fan of thunderstorms and the sooner he was safe under a roof the better. They reached a city quickly and Francis talked quietly to find accommodations for them both.

Arthur only awoke when he head the quiet murmur of voices. He yawned, blinking his eyes open and stretching slightly, back aching from being curled around Francis. "Where are we?" He asked groggily, staring around the unfamiliar town.

"Bayeux, mon cher," Francis was talking with a woman and she pointed to a building down the street. He nodded and thanked her and trotted down the street toward it, "We are in luck, there is a hotel 'ere that does not see many visitors~"

It took Arthur a moment realize just what eh Frenchman was implying. He felt his cheeks flush. "Francis," he hissed, sitting up, trying to reach the Frenchman's ear with his lips, "You can't be serious. We have to go back to the battlefield right now! Think of what our bosses will say!"

"We can say we were locked in a fierce battle and simply were- preoccupied~ oui?" Francis dismounted when he reached the hotel and smirked up at the Englishman.

Arthur felt his cheeks burn an ever deeper shade as he hesitantly slid off the horse, following Francis into the inn.

Francis smooth talked his way into getting a room for the night free, explaining how bandits had stolen there bags and they just wanted some shelter from the rain. He looked back at Arthur and smiles happily as he got a room key from the inn's owner.

Ignoring the suspicious looks the innkeeper was giving them, Arthur quickly made his way up the stairs, standing outside their door. "This is insane..." he breathed, shooting a quick look at Francis.

"Oui, but we already established we lost every stread of sanity long ago, hmm?" Francis quickly unlocked the door and walked inside. A crash of thunder shook the windows and he had to suppress a yelp of surprise.

Arthur walked inside the small room, shutting the door behind him. Carefully, he pulled off his soaking coat, dropping it on the floor, not really caring anymore. "This is very true," he said, taking a seat on the bed and exhaling deeply.

"So- mon prisoner of war~ Whatever am I going to do with you mm?" Francis joined Arthur on the bed and laid down after removing his coat and boots. Exhaustion finally catching up with him, he yawned tiredly.

Arthur stretched out beside him. "Sleeping sounds like a good start." He mumbled.

Francis chuckled and wrapped his arms around Arthur, pulling the Englishman close. "If I was not about to pass out myself, I do believe I would argue that..." He yawned again.

Snuggling against Francis, Arthur tilted his head up and kissed the scruffy chin. "I haven't gotten a good sleep in ages." He muttered, also yawning widely.

Francis was already fast asleep, the years of wear and tear on his body finally settling down, he was finally comfortable in his own skin again.

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Wooo! Well thanks for sticking around for a few chapters ^-^ I'm sure I'll have more stories (much longer actually… One of them is at 100,000 words--) so make sure to check in and s'il vous plait for the love of Francis Review!


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